


Quiet Little Voices

by Liebisadick



Series: Getting Better [1]
Category: jacksepticeye (YouTuber)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Past Child Abuse, Rape Aftermath, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5251073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liebisadick/pseuds/Liebisadick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is alone, only with thoughts and memories are there for him. He just wished to never remember then again though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Little Voices

**Author's Note:**

> Past experiences makes a story I guess. 
> 
> I wrote this as a vent since E recommended I vent for therapy. I might delete this tho. Sry for posting it

He had seen true hell.

He had seen what it was like to be in the brink of despair, to suffocate under the thick black waves that washed over head and threatened to drown his lungs and still his heart. He knew what it was like to lay awake at night, eyes wide open at three am and listening to the sound of your heartbeat pounding against your chest and to wonder why he had let himself succumb to the temptation that the razor blade held. Jack knew what it was like to write down each of his loved ones names on a paper, each sentence beginning with the words “I’m sorry that I’m dead,” before scribbling out the words as tears smeared the ink and and the parchment thrown away .

He’d seen hell many times over and he never wanted to return to it again. But things don’t always go your way in life.

Which was why he was here, sitting in his apartment alone yet again as he sat on the bed, feet hanging off the edge and hands folded over his lap. It was why his vision blurred blurred and he watched as teardrops slowly dripped from his lashes and onto his hands. Why his wrists and veins seemed to ache and pulsate as he tried keeping his gaze from the box cutter beside him.

Jack thought about everything that lead up to this, everyone that had lead up to this. It often was so hard to think about it, to bring to life past memories he had tried so hard to bury six feet underground along with an old self he wanted to leave dead. But now it came so easy, the whispers of their voices and the feel of their hands on his body he remembered so easily though the tears in his eyes flowed stronger. 

He was seven again, his body curled up under the blankets, hands gripping them tightly over his head and eyes shut tight as he pretended to sleep, praying the door would remain closed- he felt the hand ghost over his cheek, the feel of calloused fingers rubbing down his neck and the heated breath against the nape of his neck. He felt the way his skin crawled and how so often the feeling of the hand felt burned into his skin, sometimes he’d look under his shirt and the hem of his pants to make sure there was no burning print marking him. There never was, but he knew it was there. He knew he was branded by the trail of touches left by their hands. People always asked for their names, but he could never sell out blood. 

He was eight. His brother had locked him in a room again, the lights dark and his sobs echoing off the cramped closet walls. His hands and nails bled as he pounded and scratched at the door, hours of unanswered cries leading to a restless sleep. He woke up the next morning in something small and cramped, light peeking through holes above him and he sucked in air realizing he had been closed in a sealed box once more. “Let me out!” he screeched. 

He remembered the way the first girl he had ever liked had come to use his body in ways all too familiar. The way she was so pretty, so beautiful and perfect in a way only he could see and he swore he was in love with her. He knew he was, the way her smile made his heart soar, the way her laugh left him speechless and his stomach churning. He swore he loved her, and he still tried to believe that even when she had rubbed her hands over his chest in a way that trailed old paths seared into his skin, soft whispers sending shocks up his spine as he was thrusted into the dark once more under those cold covers in the early morning light. He broke up with her, and she had haunted him ever since. 

The first line he ever drew across his skin was not smooth. It was small, a little red line that barely scratched the surface of what was yet to come, the small and jagged line barely bearing the red liquid he so desperately wanted to see despite the fear that nagged at him as he gripped the cool blade tightly. Later years he had made friends with it, the razor greeting his skin like a lost lover, it gliding over his skin in a way he wanted this time. It’s searing trail burning into his skin yet it didn’t hurt nearly like the glide of the fingers did, the biting pain lasting only momentarily though worth it to know evidence of their bodies would be destroyed the more he cut. Years time promised nobody would see his body bare again, even though clothes may be shed, he was still adorned in red lines that would cover him from any violating hands again. 

And then he was staring in the mirror, just as he had done when he was seventeen. Eyes glued to his reflection, observing every line and curve of his skin. Ribs showed through skin, the bones peeking out as if trying to break free and find their way to light which he’d happily allow them if only he could eat just a little less. Old and new cuts decorated his skin, a collection of them across his chest and even his neck the red skin making him think of a lovers kiss. He looked at each bruise. The way they fought to overpower the scars, some pale and purple, others a sickening yellow that overlapped in ugly ways, skin rough and raw. He hated when they hurt him. When their screamed words of hate and anger turned to shoves and smacks, back handed blows that hurt his cheek and his pride, the tears that welled up only angering them more as he tried to bite back the swirling torrent of anger building up and trying to break free from the dam blocking his words from exiting his lips. 

It hurt so bad. Every memory, every feeling and shock, all the pain that came back at once and people that left him and voice of hatred that screamed in his ears he heard and felt it all. Their anger, his pain. Their loathing, his loneliness. The feeling of numbness as his friend passed, or the way his heart tried to stop in his chest when his best friend was found bleeding on his bathroom floor. He felt everything at once, and he hated how these memories came so easily, breaking through the barriers he had set up so carefully for so many years, hating their fragility and his tendency to break. 

He was drowning. He was drowning under the waves of his thoughts, memories flooding his mind and he was seeing everything, remembering everyone and everything all at once and the pain of those memories thrusted him under, pushing his head into them as one thought lead to another as he was tugged through their riptides until he was crashing against the rocks. 

He had been screaming and he didn't ’t even realize it, throat hoarse and he tasted iron as coughs and screams tore through his body and wouldn't stop, his arms bleeding as he fought to feel something other than them. Other than everyone who had landed their hands upon him he wanted to feel something. Even if it was this, even if it was the sharp and bitter bites of the razor and his nails against his veins it was better than what he had grown so accustomed to feeling. He just wanted their hands off of him. 

Jack wasn't sure any longer how long he had cried, how long it was until he had fallen off the bed to the floor, clutching his wrists to his chest as his breathing became shallow and pained as his lungs ached for air. Tears and blood covered his body he was sure of that, that the warm feeling against his back was blood and he was sure he was going to die. Until he felt the hand under his neck, his head lolling as it was pulled into something warm and soft, cheek buried into warmth and a hand combing through his messy tangled hair. ‘Who was that?’ he wondered, mind foggy and everything felt so heavy. He felt tears against his cheek, eyelids heavy and he struggled to open them, looking up to see Mark. Mark, his Mark crying, rocking him back and forth in his arms as he tried so hard to save what remained of Jack’s wrists. 

Closing his eyes he heard him cry his name, pleading for him to stay awake, stay with him but he knew he couldn't. He was just glad this time he could leave without the smudged and tear stained letters, the crumpled papers all saying Mark’s name. He was glad he could escape hell, it was just sad to leave with the last thing he saw was Mark’s tears. That also was hell.


End file.
